


a siren song you didn't understand

by hellatortoise



Series: pull the wool over your eyes [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: (oh my god they were roommates), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Roommates, Slow Burn, their presentations are a secret tho cuz it's a plot point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 11:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14851808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellatortoise/pseuds/hellatortoise
Summary: “Why didn’t you ask for presentation? On the application for the apartment.”He gives you a squinty, side-eyed look, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’ve asked him a trick question or not. “Becaaaauuuuse it’s none of my business?”***Dirk is a puzzle box of repressed emotion and touch-aversion, and he's got a huge secret that makes romance impossible. John, however, doesn't care much for rules. Or personal boundaries.





	a siren song you didn't understand

 

You wake up suddenly, jarringly, your breath going backwards in your chest, your heart painfully kickstarting. It takes you a moment to realize what set you off, and then, as you’re staring wide eyed at the white spackle above, you realize; the ceiling is different. The shape of the bed is different. You look over and -

Right.

New apartment.

Your new room is small and white, with just the bed and a waist-high bookshelf, cluttered by boxes full of your worldly possessions. Your suitcase is sitting, half open, on the floor nearby. The window, overlooking a small patch of grass crammed in the space between this apartment building and the next, is half covered by blue curtains, and a stripe of yellow sunlight stretches across the room and onto your belly. The boxes everywhere make it feel smaller than it will be when everything is unpacked - or so you tell yourself. Well, that’s not a big deal. You’ve lived in worse places.

In fact, you might just be the teensiest bit optimistic.

Your new roommate is clattering around in the kitchen, banging pots around, so you haul yourself out of bed. The bathroom you two share is a fair size, but there isn’t an inch of spare space on the vanity, and the mirror cabinet is so stuffed full it doesn’t close properly, even without your stuff. Perplexingly, most of it isn’t even bathroom-related - there’s a pencil case and three half empty bottles of nail polish and an x-acto knife and a tupperware filled with what looks like screws, and even a small novel with that kind of horrendous painted cover all fantasy books written in the 90’s have, pages warped with water. This is… a lot. A lot to handle. You’re going to have to be in charge of cleaning, that’s for sure.

That’s okay. You can deal with that. There’s a give and take to this kind of thing. Maybe John is good at cooking?

When you’ve wrestled your hair into place with the only bottle of gel (travel-sized) you can find in your unpacked suitcase, you make your way out into the kitchen. It’s cute, you’ll admit - small, like everything in this apartment, but it’s got a big window with a great view of the city, and there’s a polka-dotted tablecloth on the kitchen table, and a kettle, and a rack to hang pans, and over in the living room the couch is low and slouchy and covered with blankets. Everything here gives off an air of being comfortably lived in.

John is sitting at the kitchen table in an Interstellar t-shirt, and past the edge of the tablecloth you can see he’s wearing just boxers. Maybe you’re little overdressed in black skinny jeans. He looks up as you come in, hair in a curly bedhead halo backlit by the kitchen window, and cheerfully says “mornin’” around a mouthful of cereal.

“Morning,” you say back, voice and movements ever so careful as you step around him into the kitchen. You see bread sitting out on the counter and a toaster, so you guess you’re having toast for breakfast. You don’t know where anything else is.

And it’s not just the newness of the situation that is putting you on edge. You… you know John. You’ve known each other since the two of you were teenagers, in fact. He was more Dave’s friend than yours, and Dave was always strangely cagey about bringing friends to the house, so you haven’t seen him since his teeth were still crooked and he was a beanpole of a sixteen year old. It was a real shock to see his face when you went to meet up with the owner of the apartment you had applied for. And now you’ve got to ask him an uncomfortable question. You keep watch on him out of the corner of your eye as you wait for your toast, but he just keeps scrolling through something on his phone, occasionally taking absentminded bites of cereal.

And now your toast is burnt. Perfect. You don’t know where butter or jam or anything is, so you plop your ass down at the table and take a straight bit of burnt toast, which at least gets John’s attention.

“What the fuck, dude.” His voice is tinged with a laugh at the edges, and his eyebrows are at the level of his hair.

No time to explain about the toast. Best to just get everything out at the beginning - or so you tell yourself, before your brain has the chance to tie itself in knots.

“Why didn’t you ask for presentation? On the application for the apartment.”

He gives you a squinty, side-eyed look, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’ve asked him a trick question or not. “Becaaaauuuuse it’s none of my business?”

Oh. Huh.

“Isn’t it required by law?”

John rolls his eyes. “As if the police are going to go after my _craigslist ad_. I think it’s pretty stupid anyway! I can get along with pretty much anyone, as long as they aren’t a _total_ dick.” He raises his eyebrows at you and takes another bite of cereal. “Are you a dick, Dirk?” And then he laughs. “Hey, have you ever realized your name sounds like dick? Dick Dirk, hehe.”

“Only you, me, and the entirety of my municipal middle school,” you deadpan. “How original.”

He laughs again, snorting, and covers his mouth with his hand. “I am a master of comedy, thank you very much! But really, I don’t care about your presentation or whatever. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” He gives your burnt toast a pointed look. “Taste in breakfast, though; that might be a problem.” He waves his box of cereal in your face - something bright and colorful and undoubtedly absolutely bursting with sugar. “Aren’t you going to eat literally anything else?”

“Only a discerning palate can enjoy this kind of subtle and intricate flavor.” You take another bite, because you’re not a quitter.

“The subtle and intricate flavor of burnt toast, huh?” He picks up his bowl and moves around you to the sink. His hand slides across your shoulders for the smallest of moments - a ghosting touch, but it still sends a shiver down your spine.

Well. In a space as small as this you’re going to have to get used to this.  

“Do you need help unpacking?”

“Huh?” You’re still trying to wrench your brain away from the sensation of someone touching you - so casually, so accidentally - after so long, and can’t quite get your brain to process simple sentences.

“Unpacking. Like all your boxes and stuff?” John shrugs. “It’s Sunday. I don’t really have anything better to do.”

“Uh, sure.” Well, what the fuck. Might as well.

“Cool, let me go get some pants on.”

You bemusedly wait for John to make himself decent, and then you’re sitting cross legged in the middle of your room, watching as John pulls out and examines the bric a brac of your life. He coos over your FMA merch (at least he has good taste in anime, you guess), almost starts flipping through your sketchbooks (which you promptly snatch away), and asks you the name of every strangely shaped tool in your toolbox. You have to stop him from turning on your soldering gun.

“So what’s with all the screwdrivers and shit?” he asks, whirring a power drill at you.

You take the drill from him and set it back in your toolbox. “I work in a forge, that’s what.” You click the toolbox shut. Those are going with you to work tomorrow.

“Whoa, that’s so cool!” He makes expressions with his whole face - his eyebrows are all the way up in his messy fringe and his mouth is hanging open. If this were a cartoon his eyes would definitely be sparkling. “Do you make swords and shit?”

You beat down the weird twinge in your stomach at the word “sword” and focus on answering like a normal human being. “No, I mostly just weld.”

He narrows his eyes. “But _could_ you make a sword. Hypothetically. If you wanted to.”

Hmm. “I’ve made knives before, but never anything bigger than a cleaver.” You scratch your chin, mind whirring, the unfolding possibilities distracting you from the weird queasiness in your gut. “With a bit of trial and error I think I could, probably.”

“That is _so sweet_ ,” John whispers. And then he reaches into a box and pulls out a manilla envelope, and before you can stop him he’s shaking the contents into his hand like the insensitive fuck he is.

“Oh my god Dave was so cute!” He coos at the first photograph, then flips through the rest. You know each one of them by heart - some pics of you and Dave Roxy took on her polaroid forever and ever ago, Dave’s selfies and portraits of you, landscapes from Rose’s emo phase, a handful of pack pics from Jane and Jake’s cameras.

“Dude what the fuck,” you deadpan, because you can’t let him know how your heart is suddenly racing, how he’s suddenly flayed you open for examination. You barely suppress the urge to swat them out of his hands like some sort of feral animal. Mostly because you’re worried it will ruin the photos.

John squints at one and lets out a surprised laugh. “Oh man dude, sweet shades, I can’t believe you used to wear those all the time! You looked like a total doofus. Why don’t you wear them anymore?”

God. Not even fifteen minutes with him and John has already poked at the most soft and bruised parts of you.

You do what you’ve always been good at - deflect. You’re proud of how steady your voice is. “John, I am a twenty-seven year old man. Gee, I wonder why I don’t wear heinous pointy anime douchebag shades anymore.”

Mercifully, he’s moved onto the next picture, but he still raises his eyebrows to look at you sideways. “ _I_ think you’re just a coward.”

“Ah, yes, the bravery it takes to show my gushy weaboo inside to be lovingly fondled by the spiny appendages of this cruel world’s deadly animosity.”

“Haha, gross,” he snickers, covering his laugh with his mouth, and you take the moment to snatch the photos out of his hand and stuff them back in the envelope. Congratulations, you have successfully deflected an extremely uncomfortable foray into your unfortunate childhood.

You manage to hustle John out of the room now that most of your stuff is unpacked, and then sit on your bed alone for the rest of the day, trying to regain some semblance of privacy and autonomy. Your hands are shaking.

You had thought, with everything being so far behind you, that you would be more comfortable with talking about it, mentioning it - but the nausea doesn’t go away. You’re glad tomorrow you can flee to the forge and regain some semblance of normal cognition.

 

***

Despite your perhaps less-than-illustrious beginnings, you’re falling into a comfortable pattern with John:  he cooks; you do the dishes. You’ll occasionally find him standing at the stove in tree pose, knee crooked out and contemplative (you didn’t peg him as a yoga type), making an omelette at four in the morning, and that’s. You didn’t think anyone kept as odd of hours as you do. But he doesn’t ever confront you at these strange midnight encounters, and doesn’t bother you when you curl up on the couch with your laptop, so you’re slowly becoming more and more comfortable with his presence.

It’s fine. It’s all fine until suddenly it’s not.

You’re stepping out of the shower and pressing the towel to your face when you faintly catch the sharp and acrid scent of mold, and, fuck, you’re sixteen again, shaking hands braced on the cracked, faintly yellowish tiles of your old shower stall, staring at the locked bathroom door, every single fucking sense on alert for the sound of footsteps in the hallway. It’s a minute or an hour before you force yourself to put the towel down and wrench yourself into the present with a wheezing gasp. Your hands are shaking; your knees are jelly. You’re going to do the fucking laundry.

You dress quickly and grab your tools. John tries to flag you on your way out the door with some kind of box lunch, but you push past him, and take a few deep breaths on the landing before forcing your shoulders back and getting in the car.

You’ll be fine when you get to work, you tell yourself, hands on the steering wheel. They’re still faintly shaking. Fuck. It’s been a long time since a memory affected you that badly. _Fuck._ You thought you were getting _better_.

You do what you do best, though, and put that aside to be picked apart later. For now, you just focus on putting your old Honda CRX in gear and getting to the forge.

***

It’s an ugly building, the forge: an old warehouse, all concrete dripping with thick reams of rust. Your boss, one Jade Harley, bought the whole thing and tricked it out with top-of-the-line equipment - one of the perks of being fuck-off rich, you suppose.

The proprietress herself is sitting on a swivel stool when you walk through the open garage door. She’s hunched over some small contraption, and the pair of upside-down pentacle nekomimI that perch on her head (a gift from Rose?) are starting to slip off. Predictably, because she has no sense of volume or personal space, she yells “DIRK!” when she sees you come in, and then, again predictably, she drags you over to the gruesome murder scene on her worktable.

She picks up the contraption you saw her fiddling with earlier; its small carcass has been cracked open and frayed wire ends droop out in tangled coppery clumps.

“So I’ve totally fucked this wiring,” Jade begins.

“You don’t say." She punches you in the shoulder with a grin; your entire arm goes numb for a quick, tingly second.

“Help me recreate this but with new wires and stuff!” And, as is routine, you’re roped into helping her with her daily project.

Jade has a mind that’s focused and frightening in its intensity. Actually, not just her mind. Everything about Jade is _intense_ , like she’s going to one day fold into a black hole or a new universe, and watching her work is perhaps the only thing in this world that still inspires awe in you. You can’t be around her in long bursts. Mostly because her Alpha scent is always on full fucking blast. It’s not _aggressive_ , per se - more aggressively welcoming, like she’s that particularly exuberant neighborhood mom who is always getting her kids’ friends to come in and… look at her science experiments? (Yeah, that metaphor needs work.)

Jake was the same way; it was beta beta beta all the fucking time. You could always tell where he was, and where he’d been, and sometimes even what he’d been touching - courtesy of growing up in the middle of Fucking Nowhere, you guess. He and Jade both don’t have an “off” switch.

It should be overwhelming - with anyone else, you think it would be. Jade’s scent, though, never imposes. Just invites. And the atmosphere at the forge is good for you. The kind of repetitive, detailed work you do is so fucking good for your brain; it puts all your anxieties on the back burner, quiets them down, lets you focus without thinking in an almost meditative state. Sometimes you’ll get home and realize your throat is sore from quietly, unconsciously purring for hours.

That trance comes over you now as you move onto your own projects. Once you get in the groove you can focus for hours.

“Dirk!” Jade’s voice echoes from some random corner of the forge, and your brain is barely done processing it when she has dragged her swivel stool near your desk. “Gotta borrow your bubble of concentration for a bit.”

“M’kay.” You don’t pay her any mind; this is a habit of hers. While you work on some welding, she kicks her feet against the stool’s legs and spins for a bit, chewing on her bottom lip, quietly thinking. It’s not until you’ve turned the welder off and have stripped your gloves that she snaps her fingers several times in quick succession, slips off her stool, and clatters off to some other corner of the forge. You can hear her cursing somewhere around the plasma cutter.

It’s always like this: you working away steadily in a corner, and Jade bouncing off the walls in a mad frenzy. Sometimes other people come in but most of the time it’s just you two. You don’t mind her energy. It’s become a part of the atmosphere now.

She comes back to “borrow your concentration bubble” a few more times, but you’re so deep in the flow that you don’t realize you haven’t taken a break until a few hours later, and at that point Jade is pacing like a whirlwind outside, talking aloud to herself. You clench and unclench your hands, stretch your back, and tip your chair back to look through your snap feed.

Jake’s is the first one to pull up; he’s always posting something or other. You open it up and there he is, in shorts and a tank and a very silly wide-brimmed hat, and you thumb through a dozen or so pictures of him mucking around in the sand or brushing off stones or taking selfies with ancient carvings. You catch yourself smiling fondly. His dimples are just as cute as you remembered.

You’re in the middle of taking a selfie with a thumbs up when Jade yells from across the forge “DIRK ARE YOU TAKING A SELFIE” and bounds over to peer over your shoulder.

“Don’t you have literally anything to be working on?”

“Dirk, don’t you see? This is of utmost importance! This is an event of international precedent!”

“Hm. I think you’re just looking for an excuse to procrastinate.”

She plants her butt on your worktable and swings her legs, sticking her tongue out at you. “You bet your ass I am! Who’re you snapping?”

You thumb through another picture; he’s kissing a carved stone head, which strikes you as unsanitary. “Jake, in Cambodia.”

Jade waggles her eyebrows at you. “Hmmmmm, are you sure it’s not John?”

“Jade.” Wh- where did that even come from? “What the fuck _._ ”

“Hey, I have it on good authority you two are roommates now! And because he’s my favorite cousin and also because I’m dating Rose, you have to tell me if you’re dicking him down!!”

She looks way too cheerful for this. Your stomach is simultaneously on the floor and in your throat. “Oh my god, Jade, what the _fuck._ No, I’m - what the _fuck_ , Jade?”

She laughs. “Oh, this is fun! I’ve never had to give the shovel talk before!”

“Is this what’s happening? Jade, we’re _not fucking dating_.” The idea is honestly so out of left field you had not even considered it.

“If you say so mister!” And then she pounds her fist into her hand and shouts “I’ve got it!!” and hops off your worktable.

“Don’t burn yourself on the welder,” you call, and she cheerfully flips you off over her shoulder.

Uncomfortable conversations about your personal life aside, Jade works like a fucking fiend, and by the time you pack up to head home she’s got a working prototype skittering around across the floor on six jointed legs. You let her give you a hug and tell her not to stay too late.

You’re tired, but it’s a good kind of tired - the best kind of tired - that comes with giving your all at something you actually like. You’re really lucky to have found the forge.

When you walk through the door of the apartment, you see John in the kitchen in the corner of your eye, and then double take as he stiffens and turns toward you, brows drawing in.

“Why the fuck do you smell like Jade?”

You’re not even in the door all the way. You almost drop your duffel on your feet. “I. Work with her. At the forge?”

He does that same dopey surprised expression from before, entire face reacting, eyebrows stretching up and eyes widening. “OH! When you said forge I didn’t think _that_ forge!”

“My dude,” you say faintly, still halfway out on the landing. “My buddy. My pal. There’s only one forge in this area.”

He throws his head back in an exaggerated display of disgust. “BLUH, you and your _facts!_ Go take a shower and come eat something. I need to test this recipe on someone who _actually_ has functioning taste buds.”

You’re so bewildered you do what he says. And it’s. Nice? He’s made some kind of risotto with shrimp in it and it’s fucking delicious, though eating his cooking these last few weeks, you’re not too surprised on that front.

As he whistles off key and bops his way through the kitchen to some song stuck in his head, you take a look at him with a more critically, Jade’s comment still fresh in your mind. Is John dating material? He’s cute, you’ll give him that - in a young, puppyish way, with a crooked smile (one side dimples, one doesn't,) and the bluest fucking eyes you’ve ever seen. You squint at his face and decide he isn’t _hot_. Per _se._

And you’re not… really... ready. To date someone again. You’ve only so recently patched up things with Jake, and you’re pretty sure _that_ trainwreck of a relationship was what started his archaeological trips in the first place, as if he had to be halfway across the world to be away from you. (Though you try to keep what Roxy said in mind. Not every problem is about you. You repeat it like a mantra.)

Ugh. Yeah. There is an approximately 0% chance of anything romantic happening in your near future.

***

Things go like this for a few weeks. You’ve now got a comfortable routine: it’s always a guess as to when and where John will be up and about, but he’s always in the kitchen when you come home from work, and you talk almost every night. Sometimes he even breaks out the cocktail mix he keeps at the back of the fridge.

One day you come home early (Jade’s orders) to find John sprawled out on the couch, taking up literally all of it with his laptop on his chest. He’s chattering into a fancy-ass headset with a microphone; when you walk over to peek over his shoulder you see the character creation screen for Fallout 4 is pulled up on Skype screenshare. Whoever is on the other end is making a thorough mess of the female protagonist’s face.

When John hears you come over, he flashes you a huge grin and says into his mic, “Wait, Rose, pause the jokes for a sec,” and flips up the microphone.

On the screen, the horrible visage’s mouth stretches in a twisted approximation of a smile, and you grimace in an entirely involuntary response. “John. What the fuck is this?”

“Huh? Oh, it’s - oh my god, Rose, don’t make her smile - it’s a video series me n’ Rose do called Monster Factory? Like we go into the character creators of games and try to make the most fucked up character possible. Like, uh.” He gestures at the screen and laughs. “This here. I’m trying to find the place in my heart to love her.”

“Keep looking, my dude,” you respond faintly.

“Jesus, Rose - sorry,” he says, and points at his mic. “We’re kind of recording right now?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” You leave him on the couch, grab yourself a sandwich from the fridge, and retreat to your room to do what any other rational human being would do - you look up Monster Factory and marathon all the episodes. You nearly rupture an internal organ laughing. And you’re not the laughing type. You’ve known Rose for a long fucking time and you had no idea she could be so goddamn funny. It’s something about the way her dry irony and wit interacts with John’s twisted and wacky and random and weird sense of humor.

You fucking love it.

You have to ask him about it.

The next day is one of those days that John is awake when you’re getting ready for work. He doesn’t have any discernible schedule - you don’t think you’ve seen him leave the house once. You’re not exactly a nine-to-five man yourself, but it’s very strange to be the one with a consistent schedule; for most of your life you’ve worked odd hours, and even when you were still in school you spent most of the night up and about.

Maybe he’s a cryptid. Or a vampire. You entertain the quick mental image of John in a Dracula-esque suit and cape and immediately snort out a laugh.

Nocturnal leanings or not, John is sitting cross-legged on the table with a plate of potatoes and fried egg when you walk into the kitchen. He very considerately left some in the pan for you.

“Hey,” you say, scooping some onto a plate; John perks up with a “hum?”

His glasses are pushed up into his hair, and you’re caught by the full brunt of his insanely blue eyes. “We, uh.” They’re so much bigger than they are behind his glasses, fuck. “We’ve been roommates for, what, a month or so now?”

John squints at you a little bit. “Y… es?”

“You know I go to the forge.” You shrug. The potatoes are excellent. “What is it you do for work?”

“Oh.” John laughs, then grimaces theatrically. “Right. Erm.” He pops a potato in his mouth and chews for a moment, waving his fork at you. “So, like, alpha stereotypes.”

Something in your brain clicks. “Wait, hold up. Hold on. Hold on just a second.” You point your fork at him. “You’re an _alpha?_ ”

He grins crookedly, one cheek dimpling, and does a little bow with a flourish that sends a few potatoes flying off his plate. “Yeup! What, you couldn’t tell?”

He’s _laughing._ Good, because what you just said is what the kids call _extremely fucking rude._ You swallow dryly. Your stomach is weightless with shock, like you’ve been dropped from the world’s tallest and mind-fuckiest roller coaster.

“See, this is what I’m talking about, though!” John leans forward, putting his plate on the table to more effectively gesture with his broad hands. “Everyone expects alphas to have, like, this go-get-em personality, right? Like, Jane, fuck, I love her to _death_ but she’s got this old fashioned idea of alpha chivalry or whatever” (he rolls his eyes) “and works this crazy lucrative job so she can shell out money to her pack, right? Or, like, all the alphas on TV or whatever want to build these mega mansions for their omegas or packs, but, erm. I kind of want to just chill?” He looks a bit sheepish, scratching the back of his head, but goes right back to waving his hands wildly as he speaks. “I _would_ feel bad about it, but Rose has pretty much got ‘super rich pack provider’ covered, I think, so I’m cool. I mean, I dropped out of college and everything.”

Another one of those grimaces. You’re starting to think John doesn’t know how to make expressions without using his whole goddamn face. “I guess I wouldn’t be able to survive without Janey’s very kind and loving monetary assistance. But!” And here his whole face lights up, and that lopsided grin with the one dimple comes back. “I’ve got, like, well _Rose_ calls it my ‘social media empire’ but it’s stuff like Monster Factory, and some game streams, and, uh.” He scratches at the corner of his mouth and won’t meet your eye, as if he’s going to reveal he’s a porn star or something - though he’s still grinning like crazy. “I’ve got a photography blog, too.”

You stare. You can’t help it. Your brain is still click-click-clicking as it absorbs all of this information, and then you realize it’s been too long since John stopped talking, and he’s looking at you with this weird expression on his face, like he’s waiting for you to lay into him.

So you say the first thing that comes into your head: “You’re into photography?” You’re not proud of how weak your voice comes out.

Right answer. John lights up completely (you almost need to squint.) “Yeah! Dave got me into it, though I’m sure he’s still way better than I could ever be. But,” and here he turns shy, looking down for a moment (his glasses almost slide off the top of his head) before glancing up at you from underneath his thick black lashes. “I could show you a few things?”

Oh, he’s so hopeful. You don’t have the heart to tell him you have absolutely no eye for photography - Dave tried to show you a few things (lighting and positioning and whatnot) but you were completely hopeless at it.

But. His face. Your heart constricts. “Yeah,” you wheeze out, as if the pressure in your chest is real and not just imagined by your empathetic nervous system. “Sure.”

He _beams_. “Oh man, fuck yes! We’re going to have the _best_ time.”

You sit at the table as you both finish your breakfast, and John radiates and incredibly pleased energy the entire way through, wriggling in his seat as he wolfs down the rest of his potatoes. When he gets up to put his plate in the sink, he trails his hand across your shoulders, just for a moment.

It’s a small kitchen, and he needs to scootch by you to get past, so it could be entirely by accident. But.

It leaves a hot hot imprint on the back of your neck you can’t seem to stop feeling.

***

It’s a few weeks later that Roxy hits your phone with a “come over y/y” that you can’t ignore (It’s Roxy.) John hasn’t brought up the photography thing again, and you’re starting to wonder if he’s forgotten, but, well.

It’s not like you’re going to bring it up, are you. You’ll just let it slide quietly past without comment - well, without comment to _John_. You’re absolutely going to bitch to Roxy about this missed date opportunity.

Wait. No, it’s… it wasn’t going to be a date. Was it?

Shit.

You let yourself into Roxy’s apartment with a “yo” to let her know you’ve arrived. She tears out of the bathroom and scoops you into a hug before you’re three steps into the apartment.

“Hey!” she coos, in the high-pitched, sing-song voice she reserves specifically for greeting you. At sixteen, you thought it was belittling. Now, you smile into Roxy’s hair and hug her back.

“Okay, three guesses for what we’re doing today.” She pulls out of the hug and leans up on her tiptoes to smack a kiss right on your nose. You squint past her into the kitchen and see the table littered with brushes, clips, disposable gloves, and tubes; a familiar black folding chair is set up next to the sink.

“Hm. Look at all this hair-dye related paraphernalia. What _could_ it be.”

She laughs and hands you a bottle; you squint at the label. It advertises a shocking neon pink. “Is this lab safe?”

She shrugs. “It’s not like I’m getting my hair in the petrI dishes, right?”

“That tracks.” You sit her down on the folding chair, which clicks as it rocks back and forth on its uneven legs, and drape a black towel over her shoulders. It’s the same black towel and chair you’ve used on Roxy since she roped you into dying her hair the first time at thirteen, and you messed up the levels in the bleach and fried her curls so bad she had to cut most of it off. Since then, she’s changed colors more time than you can count, and the practice has made you the best welder-slash-stylist this side of the Mississippi.

Or. So you assume.

In any case, you start working the dye into Roxy’s thick curls. You don’t mind it at all - this kind of detailed, technical, hands-on thing is good for your brain (reminds you of working in the shop) and Roxy is plenty happy to chat without expecting much reply.

You scritch the spot at the base of her skull you know she likes. “How’s Rose?”

“Oh, you know, miserable,” Roxy sighs, tilting her head into your hands. “Not that she’ll ever admit it, the goober. She just flew out yesterday for a book tour. Aaaaall the way in Vancouver, and they didn’t let Jade come, ‘cuz last time, which was _totally_ unwarranted!” Roxy sniffs. “Rose paid for that table to be replaced, so really, it _should_ be fine, but nooooo - her agent is still what the kids call Big Mad about the whole thing.”

“To be fair, that table was an antique.”

“Antique schmantique, they probably bought it at a pawn shop.”

You’re through one tube of dye, and you clip the finished section neatly away before moving onto the second. “Speaking of Rose, did you know she does a video series with John?”

“Oh, you mean Monster Factory? Hell yeah, I knew that! It’s pretty funny, right?”

“Yeah. Tilt your head.” You work carefully around Roxy’s ears. “Do you know John very well?”

“I mean, yeah? When he ‘n Rose were younger he was always in and out of the house but I never managed to pin him down for an actual conversation. Kid’s a firecracker.”

“You know he’s, like, 24 by now, right?”

Roxy cackles. You tilt her head over to work on the other side. “It’s just… weird. I figured since he was Dave’s best friend and all I’d know more about him, but…” Your hands still. “I don’t think I really know him at all.”

“Wait, are you two hanging out on the regular these days?”

“Erm.” Roxy knows about your move, of course, but, you, maybe, have not gotten around to telling her - “We’re maybe. Roommates.”

“OH. EM. GEE!” Her head jerks up and she spins around to look at you with eyes wide open. “Di. Diiiiiiiiii. Dirk!” She grabs your face. You flail your neon pink hands. “We’re besties! You gotta tell me if you have the hots for Janey’s totes cute lil bro!!”

“Oh my god, Roxy, don’t fucking put it like that.” You back out of her range and hold your stained gloves out in front of you in a vain attempt of forming a barrier. “You make me sound like a lecherous old man!”

“Oh, and you aren’t?” She makes a feint to the left; you duck behind her kitchen table. “Riddle me this, Dirk: what strapping young man under the age of 30 keeps a stash of hard candy in his desk?”

“Okay, that’s to, like, help me focus and -” you try to edge around to the garbage to at least dump your gloves, but Roxy jumps in the way- “okay, we’re doing this, we’re talking about my oral fixation right now instead of talking about John because that’s how much I don’t want to be talking about John right now.”

“As if I didn't already know, you-” Roxy shrieks and laughs as you make a grab for her. You chase her down the hallway to the bathroom and doesn’t stop shouting “dirty old man!” until you wrestle the spray head of the shower out of her hands and spray her in the face.

“You win, you huge pervert,” she says, breathless, as she settles at the edge of the bathtub so you can rinse the dye out of her hair. You work the shampoo in, and then the conditioner, and she bows her head low and exposes the whole back of her dark neck to you. She goes quiet under your fingers and the warm spray from the showerhead, and the way she’s drumming her fingertips on her thighs, you know she has something to say.

“Di,” she says, and she’s ever so quiet.

“Hm.” You work your fingers through her hair, circular motions, getting right to the root. The only sound is the burbling showerhead and Roxy’s soft, shallow breaths.

“Di, do you ever. I don’t know. I’m probs just blowing things out of proportion again.”

Drumming. Tap tap tap.

“But do you. Do you ever worry about the pack? Like. With Jake gone and Janey with her new big project that’s takin’ up all her time and. You just moved out of that old place where we all spent so much time together and-” She sniffles. “Maybe it’s just nostalgia but it really made me think.”

Another sniffle. The water is running clear but you keep it on, and keep running your fingers through her hair, scritching in small circles. Learning how to be tactile with Roxy wasn’t easy. She’s one of four people you’ve consciously decided to let into your personal bubble. To say it was a learning experience would be an understatement. Now, though, It’s a habit, an equation - reach out for hugs, hand holding, back rubs, and watch Roxy’s eyes light up and her body get soft.

She’s always purred the easiest out of all of you. Jane’s always strung so tight and Jake’s self conscious but Roxy would drape herself over any and all of you and purr and purr and purr, and it strikes you just then how small and wet she looks hunched over the edge of the pink-stained tub, and realize she’s probably spent all of your time together trying to prevent this very separation from happening.

You heart fucking aches.

You switch off the water and help Roxy wrap it up into a towel, and then you pull her against your chest, right there perched on the edge of the tub. She sniffles and sniffles against your shirt.

“We’re not going anywhere, Rox,” you whisper. “We’re not going to leave you.”

“I know, I know, I just. Ugh.” She rubs her face against your shirt. “Stupid beta hormones. I’m just feeling a lil’ lonely, is all.”

“Yeah.” You lay your cheek on the top of her head and don’t let go.

***

It’s about a week later when John springs a fucking trap.

You’re hunched on the couch over the coffee table, folded almost in half while looking through YouTube tutorials on silicone casting with Mythbusters quietly playing on the TV for white noise, when you hear the unmistakable snick of a camera shutter.

You bolt upright and look wildly over your shoulder, heart zinging painfully at the unexpected sound. _Fuck_. John is holding a fancy schmancy camera, looking smug as hell, eyes bright and smile crooking up to the side.

Your heart can’t take this abuse. You ignore the way the sight of him makes your throat tighten.

And, of course, while you’re sitting there staring at him dumbfounded, he takes another goddamn picture.

Fucking. Right. 

John shakes his camera jauntily. “Ready to go?”

You look down at your lap; you’re currently wearing the pajama booty shorts that say “art thou nafty” on the butt. “Erm. No. Let me go put some actual clothes on.”

“Aw, not going to grace the citizens of this fair city to your blindingly pale legs?” John’s expression is too cheerful for anything he says to be a real zinger. “We’re going out and about so … layers!”

“Right.” You shimmy into actual pants and throw on the first flannel you chance upon in your closet, grabbing a bomber jacket lying on a chair on the way out.

“Dude, did you steal  my shirt?”

You stop dead in your tracks, hand halfway stuck combing through your hair, and look down at your ensemble. You frown. “I don’t know. Did I steal your shirt?”

“Yeah, that’s totally my shirt!” He comes closer and plucks at one of the buttons.

You’ve never been one for blushing but in this moment your face is almost sizzling. You could grill a steak on your glowing cheeks. “Oh, shit, dude, sorry.” At this point you’ve taken over all the laundry so this is totally your fault. You fidget with your hands at the hem. What’s the protocol for a situation like this? Do you take it off immediately and hand it back to him? You’re going to take it off immediately and hand it back to him.

John gives you a long look, eyes dragging from head to toe, and sort of leans back and squints. You breathe in through your nose and focus on not letting your face melt off your skull.

“Naw, dude, it’s cool.” That serious, scrutinizing look is gone, and the goofy smile is back. “Red looks terrible on me anyway. Just keep it.”

While 80% of your brain has ground to a halt trying to process this simple social interaction, the remaining 20%, in true Strider fashion, spits out the first fucking thing that floats from the murky depths of your subconscious. “Oh, more of a burgundy man, I see.”

John just laughs, eyes squinting and nose scrunching, like his whole face has to take part in it, and pulls you out to his car. It’s as vibrantly messy as the rest of his space, with a tropical air freshener swinging from the rearview mirror, and a glove box covered in stickers.

He picks up a blue water bottle sitting in the cup holder. “Oh, that’s where I put that!” He then promptly throws it in the backseat, which, when you turn around, is strewn with at least 4 other water bottles in a rainbow of colors.

It’s starting to get dark when John pulls into the parking lot of the local park, and the shadows stretch long and blue. It’s just barely chilly - more of a cold edge to cut the haziness of the day. John hands you his very very expensive camera. You just sort of. Cradle it in your hands.

“Okay, so the trick is to think in thirds…” He leans over your shoulder to look with you through the digital screen, and his voice is dead serious as he discusses fibonacci spirals and exposure levels.

You can’t stop thinking about his hand searing through the spot right under your shoulder blade.

“I thiiiiink that’s it?” He claps you on the back. “It’s best to learn through practice sooo just have at it and let me know if you have any questions!”

“Ah, okay?” You turn around but he’s already crouched in the bushes in front of a wildflower some distance away. Hm. This isn’t how you imagined this going.

You bring the camera back up to your eye. Everything looks so much farther away through a camera lens. What was it John was saying earlier? Rule of thirds? Right. You can do that, at least. His handprint is still burning into your back.

Snap. Snap. Oh, a snail. Snap. The sunlight is starting to disappear. John is following you around, taking pictures on his phone of you and the park. Wild rose, scrub oak. Snap snap snap.

“Hey Dirk!” John waves at you from waist-high underbrush (how did he get over there so fast). Your finger pushes down the button in surprise. Whoops? “Come check this out!”

You cradle the camera in one elbow as you make your way over. John sticks his hand in a bundle of cone-like fronds and picks a silvery-green leaf, rubbing it between his fingers.

“It’s wild sage! Jade’s got tons of this stuff.” He sniffs the leaf, then holds it out for you to investigate. “She’s super good at the plant thing. Gardening, I mean. You know you can use this stuff to purify a room? Or at least that’s what Jade says. She’s super into that witchy shit.”

“Yeah. Dave was into that too, for a while.” You vividly remember the few months your apartment smelled like incense and sage. Dave kept trying to rope you into tarot readings. Then your brain makes the connection and you put a hand to your forehead, suddenly lightheaded like some sort of Victorian romantic heroine. “Oh shit. Was that when he was dating Jade?”

John _stares_. “Oh my god. Oh my god I forgot they dated.” He throws his head back and groans theatrically. “That’s so weeeeeeeeird! Your brother and my cousin!”

“Yeah.” Good god.

“Oh wait, I remember this now! Dave was always trying to do tarot readings for me.” John rubs his face and laughs. “What was that, high school? Fuck.”

He makes grabby hands at you, and for a heart-stopping moment you think he wants you to go give him a hug, but then you notice he’s looking at the camera. “Okay, enough of that. I want to see the pictures you took!”

You sit backwards on a picnic bench, backs against the table, and John clicks through your clumsy attempts. You watch his face. He laughs at the picture you took of him popping out of the underbrush, waving a sprig of sage. The honey-warm light of the sunset is giving his curly head a halo.

And then, with no warning, he looks right up at you. “You and Dave are super close, right?”

You’re caught strangely off guard; you answer without thinking. “Yeah, I practically raised him.”

John smiles at you, but then looks away. He chews on his lip and looks back, eyebrows faintly drawn in. “Yeah. Dave doesn’t really… talk? About any of that? I mean I kind of knew his situation, but. No pressure to tell me about it, though! I’m not gonna pry.” He scratches the back of his neck and hands you the camera back. “Haha. Okay, now this is awkward. Do you want to see these pictures I took of you?”

“John.” Your heart is strangely tight in your chest. “It was nearly ten years ago. We’re super over it. I mean, Dave has been seeing a therapist for, like, ever, so he’s got all his shit figured out. That shit is on top-security lockdown. We’re good.”

John doesn’t comment on the fact that you didn’t mention seeing a therapist yourself. Or that you never wear your trademark shades, even though Dave still wears his all the time. Or that you do laundry religiously, or that you have a box of swords gathering dust in the back of your closet, or that footsteps on the landing at night make you go tight and quiet.

You’re so fucking grateful.

Instead, he smiles, and the sunlight slants just so across his face, catching one corner of his crooked smile and lighting up one dark eye with aquamarine. You hoist the camera up and snap a picture right then and there, earning a delighted laugh.

“Hold on, hold on, let me see that,” John says, and pulls the camera out of your hands. You can tell when he sees the picture, because his dumb expressive face goes all loose and his eyes widen and he so so quietly goes “oh.”

It’s a good fucking picture. You can’t tear your eyes away from the gently awed look on his face.

And then John blinks hard and clicks through to the next photo, and the moment pops like a soap bubble. He’s laughing, and praising you, and giving advice, and he’s so earnest and eager and _sincere_ it makes your heart ache and ache.

Your chest is still tight. You flex your fingers like the repetitive movement will clear your head.

You may or may not have a thing for John Egbert.

You’re maybe kind of totally fucked.

***

It’s weird to be the one with a nine-to-five.

You’ve always worked odd hours. It was high school you discovered 2 in the morning as a time of frenzied inspiration, and then you worked construction, and when you were going to technical school classes were all in the evenings.

Nowadays, with your Official Grown Up Job, you schedule has become quite regular. It’s John who’s in and out of the house at weird times, doing whatever he does to manage his small social media empire. Sometimes you wonder if he leaves the house at all.

You’ve had a plan in the back of your head, itching and insistent, but it takes a few weeks for you to land on a day where you’re at home and John announces he’s going downtown to meet up with Jane.

As soon as he leaves you lay yourself full out on the couch. You’re so tall the top of your head brushes one armrest and you have to prop your feet up on the other. The ceiling fan, quiet on a low speed, blows directly into your face. You dial Dave.

He picks up after two rings. “You fucking gremlin , why don't you facetime like normal people? Are you sixty fucking years old?"

His voice, tinny as it is from the other end, makes you smile. “Hm. As if you don’t see enough of my ugly mug on Snapchat anyway.”

“No! Not true, you never take selfies.”

“Ah, yes, because my physical form is uncapturable by any modern technology. Snapchat camera never stood a fucking chance.”

“Okay, this is bullshit.” There’s the sound of clothes rustling and a washing machine banging around in the background on the other end. “What’s up?”

“I just.” You sigh an exhale. Your foot is jiggling with tense energy. Your entire body is strung up, but, jokes on you body, you’ve operated enough times under this thick tension you’re able to push through it. “Do you think I should see a therapist.”

Dave is quiet on the other end, though the clothes rustling continues. “I mean, yeah?” Is he folding laundry? “It’s the twenty first century my man it’s not a federal fucking issue to need help with your weird brain shit or whatever. It was.” A long exhale. “It was real good for me.”

Okay. Okay. You can do this. You can get through this. You’re definitely not remembering the months Dave was cold and angry and sad and distant while he worked his shit out, while you tried desperately not to smother him, and let him come to you. Fucking rough stuff.

“Can I ask what brought this up?”

“I was just. Thinking.” You card a hand through your hair. Your leg is still bouncing hard; you’ve got to get this energy out of your body or you’re going to explode. “About, you know. And I just realized that some of the stuff I do, and think, is really fucking weird.”

A quiet laugh. “What, this is news?”

“I am trying so hard to be emotionally vulnerable here, bro, you’re breaking my heart.”

“Listen, Dirk, I love you so much, but-” and here his voice gets tight and sad. “I never knew how to bring it up but, like. I know you worried about me a lot but I worried about you too, you know? All the fucking time. You’re like, okay, this is what you’re like. You know how a mom octopus will, like, hide away in these lil’ sand caves with millions and millions of eggs - don’t fucking laugh at me I’m making a real good point here - and like gently brush them and move ‘em around to make sure they’re getting enough oxygen, and not leave until she like starves to death? Yeah? That’s you. That’s fucking you, Dirk. You’re a fucking mother octopus. A mother fucking octopus.”

Your chest is so tight. You rub your hand against your sternum as if you could push away the heaviness. “It’s not really - that’s not - that’s not _self sacrifice_ , I’m just trying to, to take care of - it’s more of repaying a debt anyway-”

“God, do you fucking hear yourself? Repaying a debt? When are you gonna realize people do nice things for you because they fucking _like_ you?”

That’s like an iron stake in the chest. Your throat suddenly tightens and you focus very very hard on a funny-shaped blob of plaster on the ceiling. Are those bunny ears? Hah.

“Think of it this way. I’m gonna drop some serious therapy knowledge on you right here and now. Prepare to blow your fucking load cuz I know you love this psychology shit. We’re gonna do a thought experiment. Walk with me into this metaphor. When you do nice things for, say, Roxy, is it because you’re secretly trying to manipulate her into liking you? No - instead of just saying whatever self-deprecating bullshit comes immediately to mind like a huge dumb idiot, hear me out first. It’s cuz you love her, right?”

Yeah, Roxy. You fucking love Roxy with every fiber of your shrunken bitter heart. You blink hard a few times. “Yeah.”

“Yeah? So _here’s_ a fun concept - what if, and this is a huuuuuuuuge what if here, Roxy does nice things for you because _she also loves you?_ And before you say Roxy doesn’t love you, like a fucking dumbass, think about that time you got you a Rainbow Dash kigurumi even though you were a 22 year old man and that’s a criminal crime. Roxy committed a crime for you, Dirk. Is that the act of someone who doesn’t love you? Right. It isn’t. Case closed. Go see a fucking therapist, you huge dork.”

You laugh, because you can’t really do anything else. Later you’ll lay out all of your emotion for careful examination, but for now - you aren’t _lighter_ , the way people always say they feel when they make a huge, groundbreaking realization, but you are determined. You have a goal. Something to work towards. A plan.

And if there’s one thing you’re fucking good at, it’s carrying out plans.

So you promise Dave you’ll go see a therapist. And then you ask him how Karkat is doing and how he likes living in the suburbs like some kind of soccer mom, and you realize, for the first time in a long time, your chest isn’t imploding with anxiety at the thought of him getting hurt. He’s proven that he can take care of himself.

Now you just have to take care of _yourself_.

Right.

***

You wake up the next morning with a weight in your chest and an itch right between your shoulder blades you know you won’t be able to scratch yourself. It immediately puts you in a bad mood. If you end up having to change your prescriptions _again_ you’re going to be fucking pissed. You _knew_  you shouldn’t have shacked up with an alpha not in your pack. You should have _known_ better.

Bluh.

You allow yourself a moment of miserable self pity before reminding yourself that it isn’t the worst you’ve ever had it; you’ve gone through phases like this before and you’re going to be _fine._ But it does sort of put you in a foul mood.

And John can fucking tell - he locks onto you the moment you walk into the kitchen and fusses over you. “Dude do you have a cold? Rose sent me some really nice tea - hold on, I’ll make a pot."

You’re torn between telling him to back the fuck off and asking him to wrap you up in a hug. You want to be touched so very badly, it’s affecting your concentration. You get through breakfast just fine but when you get to work Jade immediately folds you into a hug, and you let her. She doesn’t mention it, thankfully, but you spend the entire rest of the day thinking about John’s hands on you. Not in a sexual way, just platonically, but that’s almost more sinful. You’re aware you live most of your life in this kind of state, but usually it’s… easier to ignore. You can go for months at a time and then it suddenly hits you, and you spend so much energy fighting your bullshit “instincts” it leaves you absolutely exhausted.

God you hate this.

When you get home that night you plop down into a chair at the kitchen table and lean your head on your folded arms, leaving your back fully stretched out. John immediately comes over and sits in the chair next to yours with a cup of tea and his phone. You’re not sure if it’s conscious for him, honestly, the way he just sort of butts his way into everyone’s business. Either way, you’re sort of grateful, though a little guilty, and you turn your head on your folded arms to glance sideways at him.

“How was work?” he asks.

“Bleargh.”

He laughs at that. “Eloquent.”

He sips his tea, swiping nonchalantly through the feed of some social media sight or other. Your throat is tight with what you’re going to say. He hasn’t even touched you, but goosebumps start to form on the nape of  your neck.

You hm at him and he hms back. “Hey. could you.” You are slowly dying on the inside. For a moment, you consider backing out, and then you forge ahead on the edge of panic. “There’s a real fucking terrible itch right between my shoulder blades and. I can’t. Um. really reach it.”

He looks up from his phone, looking vaguely surprised, but sets his cup of tea down. “Yeah, dude, sure.”

And then his broad hand is on you, right in the middle of your back, and there’s a shock of energy that ripples all the way down to the base of your spine, and your arms erupt in goosebumps from shoulder to wrist, and you hold your breath to keep from making a surprised and embarrassing sound.

You shut your eyes and focus on your breathing as John scritches at your back. “Right here?”

“Mmmm, a little to the right.”

“Here?”

Hhhhnnggh. “Yeah.”

You wonder how John’s back-scratching technique has been passed down from generations and generations of back-scratching savants. You wonder how such a simple touch creates a reaction in your chest that's so much like anaphylactic shock. You wonder _why the fuck you didn’t do this sooner._ It’s like your entire body is being slowly turned to warm putty. Your hair stands up on end. Your _toes_ curl. It isn’t until now that you realize your entire body has been crying out for weeks for this kind of contact, and something in the back of your head goes

Oh!

You’re fucking touch-starved.

Honestly, you probably have been your entire life. And fuck if there isn’t a (large) part of your brain that is recoiling from your reaction, guilty and disgusted - you’re so weak, so _needy._ You thought you were so strong, thought you could get through this yourself, and here you are, folding to the stereotypes like grass or paper. Thin, and weak.

And, because you can’t focus on the moment and enjoy things like a normal person, you begin shifting through your memories of interactions with John since you’ve moved in. Slowly but surely, he’s been crowding your space. And. Your space is something you’ve always payed razor sharp attention to. You can count on one hand the people you’ve  let into your personal bubble, and for each one there was a period of consciously letting your barriers down until you got used to them being so… _close_. With John, it’s a jolt to realize that he and you, unconsciously, have melted together so thoroughly.

And it’s. Maybe it’s just the subtle pheromones John is putting out - probably unintentional, as when you peek over he’s scrolling nonchalantly through his phone - god, that’s such an alpha thing to do, reminds you of Jane - but you feel like. Like you can trust him. Predictably, your head starts to whirl, branching out in all the possible ways this could go horribly wrong, pulling against your thumping heart, and the conviction hardening there, tight and hot. Better jump before you can think too hard about it.

“John.”

“Mm?”

“Erm, first off. This is a super serious thing I want to tell you, so, if you’re not up to it, or if at any point you want to bail, or, I don’t know, I ramble pretty easily so if I start to talk to much or anything, you’re free to leave, you aren’t going to hurt my feelings -”

His hand has stilled on your back and you can’t really bear to look over at his face, so you bury your face in your arms again.

“And, uh, yeah. I’m just gonna. So you know how when I first moved in here I was really curious about why you hadn’t asked for presentation and all that, and I never told you? Officially? What my presentation is? Well, here it is. Officially. Government sanctioned. Put a stamp on this shit.”

John rubs your back in little back-and-forth movements in what you hope is a reassuring gesture. In any case it’s insanely soothing. So you take a deep breath and forge on.

“I’m an omega.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but, well, it’s not exactly my _favorite_ trait, I mean I would probably say that my eyes are my best feature, followed by my shoulders, and I mean I don’t exactly _look_ like an omega so it’s not hard to hide, but -”

“Dirk, you know I don’t really care, right?”

You look over. His chin is on his hand and he’s staring intently at you, eyebrows drawn in, frowning, but with only one corner of his mouth. “I meant what I said when you moved in. I don’t care about that at all. I mean I’m not exactly the paragon of alpha-ness either!” He shoves your shoulder, softly, playfully. “There’s really no need for you to feel bad about it.”

You stare.

And then your eyes narrow. “So you’re not going to. Fuss over me. Or think it’s your sole responsibility to provide for my worldly comfort or anything like that.”

He rolls his eyes. “Dirk. Diiiiiiiirk! You wound me!” And then he starts to laugh, the little shit. “Do I look like the kind of person who does anything remotely nice or helpful!”

“You know what, you’re right. Anyone who has the absolute fucking gall to _deliberately_ wash all my whites with that horrific red sweater is incapable of human love -”

“Oh, whatever, you _still_ wear all that pink stuff!” He runs his hand up to the nape of your neck and then down to the small of your back and back up in on tingly swipe, and you can’t stop a shuddering inhale at it.

It seems impossible, but… It turned out all right.

***

So life continues - normally, for the most part. If John is a little bit freer with his physical affection and you a little less shy in accepting it, then that’s your own fun and sexy little secret. It’s not like anything else in that area has changed. You still have to struggle against your gut reaction to stiffen whenever Jade hugs you, and you don’t find yourself giving the select few in your personal bubble more physical affection, though Roxy remains as needy as ever.

It’s just John. Like you’ve been holding your breath around him for the longest fucking time, and now that you’ve let it out, you can relax. Physically, mentally, emotionally. People have always been so _polarized_ about your presentation. Even though you love Jane and Roxy to bits, they were all over you when you told them, fussing and smothering until you had to tell them on no uncertain terms how you felt about being mother-henned. It’s a relief to be around someone who’s so _indifferent._

Not that John is indifferent to you. He’s always willing to listen to you bitch about this and that, or lend an ear when you’re infodumping, or show you his projects, or watch movies with you - actually, at this point, his behavior can’t be categorized as anything but comfortable and familiar. Almost, if you’re optimistic, boyfriend-ly. But your presentation he cares nothing about. Hasn’t brought it up since you told him. And that’s fucking wonderful.

You let yourself daydream. About what it would be like if this were a real relationship. Not that you want to ruin what you have now. What you have now is amazing. Euphoric, even. You  just. Maybe want to kiss him a little. But you haven’t thought about being _boyfriends_ with someone since you were dating Jake, and THAT’S weird and bad to think about, so you don’t. And just enjoy John’s casual affection like you’re a little plant thirsty for water and sunlight. Or maybe just thirsty, sans metaphor. What can you say. John has a fabulous ass.

Until.

It starts small - coming home with extra blankets (the fleecy staticy kind that you have a begrudging sort of fondness for), pillows, caffeinated soda. A package arrives from Amazon that’s full of rainbow prisms that he hangs in his window. You finally catch on when he comes home with honest-to-god _fairy lights_ and strings them up in his room.

“John. John, what the fuck?”

“What, a man can’t enjoy some nice mood lighting?”

You take stock of his bed, literally overflowing with pillows (most of which have fallen all over the floor), the piles of blankets spilling out of his closet, the prisms, the _fairy lights_. “John. You’ve built a fucking bower.”

He laughs outright at that, the asshole. “Haha no way!” He screws another hook into the ceiling. “I don’t DO ruts. Never. Not once. I just.” He leans back to squint at his work. “Was getting bored with my room and thought it could be more comfy. You know. Low light so I don’t hurt my eyes when I’m on the computer at night, and shit.” He waves the power drill at you. “If anything, this is the behavior of a rational and responsible adult!”

You are absolutely dumbstruck. Your head is racing. Something clicks - the way John is so convinced he’s a “bad” alpha, his disinterest in your presentation, his lack of alpha “smothering” instincts around an omega - _he’s never had a fucking rut._ And now he’s going into one. And you realize that your entire world is going to fucking shatter.

“John,” you say stiffly. Nothing in your body wants to work - everything is frozen. “Trust me when I say this. You’re going into a rut.”

His face screws up. “How the fuck do you know? I haven’t even been dating anyone.”

“It’s like puberty, dude, happens to everyone.” It has to. It always has.

John throws back his head in the most dramatic groan you’ve ever seen. “Bluh! That’s the fucking lamest!” He glares at the fairy lights, then sighs. “Well, might as well finish this before I go panic at Jane.” He points at a packet of hooks sitting on his cluttered desk. “Wanna hand me one of those?”

So you numbly hand him one of those, and help him set up the rest of the fairy lights, standing close on top of his pillow-strewn bed, and when you think about how in a week or so John’s going to be wrapped up in this bower, either by himself or _someone else_ , you try very very hard to ignore the cold knife that arcs through your stomach.

You force John to call Jane and leave the house, and when you come back late with a few bags of groceries, John is curled around his laptop on the couch, furiously tapping away with a scowl on his face.

You are not about to have The Talk with John Egbert, so you skirt him on your way to your room, but as soon as he sees you he shoves his laptop off his lap and ropes you into watching a movie over ice cream, and at the end when you realize you’re tangled together and he’s fallen asleep on your shoulder, you kind of forget you’re supposed to be mad at him for becoming an _alpha_ and ruining the perfect life you’d built in this quiet little 3rd story 2 bedroom apartment.

But as the week goes on it becomes harder and harder to forget. John gets fucking _clingy_. When he said he wasn’t dating someone, he can’t have been lying - you’re sure you’d see them as you’re _literally attached to John’s hip._ He’s always finding excuses to touch you, from innocently brushing by you as you circle each other in the house, to blatantly making grabby hands and whining. He’s frustrated with his behavior, too, but he always looks so _miserable_ when you’re not around. Something about his sad baby blues just pings the inside of your ribs in an uncomfortable reverberation, and you keep finding yourself giving in, even when you promised yourself not to.

There’s no way you’re spending John’s rut with him. No fucking way. The way your chest tightens every time you look at him is obviously the machinations of biological omega fuckery, and you will have _none_ of it.

If only he didn’t look so goddamned _sad_ all the time.

He’s making it _really_ hard for you.

***

Okay. Okay, you take it back. Clingy John is not the worst John. Even depressed pre-rut John is not the worst John. John, waiting for you to come home from work on a Friday night, sitting stiffly at the kitchen table in a button-down and bowtie, clutching a bouquet of pink roses so tight in both hands you can hear the crunch of cellophane, lips pressed together so tight they’ve almost completely disappeared, is _absolutely_ the worst John.

You stop dead as soon as you see him, and he starts as you walk in, and the two of you are staring, wide-eyed, silent. You cannot parse what you are seeing. You didn’t even know John owned a bowtie. You’re still wearing your grease-stained jumpsuit from the shop. Your brain is still slowly grinding, filling your head with thick black clouds of metaphorical smoke while _does not compute_ blares like an alarm behind your eyes, when John abruptly stands, sending the chair clattering backward.

“What the _fuck_ ,” you whisper, so, so quietly.

John clears his throat, scrubs at his quickly reddening face before speaking. “Dirk. I, erm. Do you want to, ah. Um.” And then he blurts: “Will you be my boyfriend?”

Your brain flatlines. You’re sure your jaw is on the floor but you can’t summon the brainpower to care as you try to puzzle through what he just said.

“What?” you say weakly.

John looks down at the flowers in his hand, as if suddenly remembering they’re there, and thrusts them out at you like a flailing drowning man, and, with a somewhat manic look on his face, says “I really really like you and I kind of want to kiss you and - cut me a break, I've never ever ever felt like this before!” And he looks scared enough you believe it.

But you’re not. You can’t. You can’t fucking deal with this. Your hand is still on the fucking doorknob, and you realize you’re gripping it so hard your knuckles are white. “You. Want me. To be your boyfriend.”

John pulls the proffered flowers back to his chest. The cellophane wrapping squeals as he grips it tighter, eyes widening ever so slightly, eyebrows twitching together. “Y… es?”

Your nostrils flare. “You’re asking me to be your boyfriend. Right before your rut starts.”

His eyes widen and you see the split-second of panic as he understands. “No - I mean, yeah, but - I’ve liked you for a long time - just - I didn’t realize until -”

“And are you going to dump me as soon as you pop a knot?”

“No, of course not, I promise -”  

Your chest is going to implode. “You fucking _said_  it wouldn’t be any different, but as soon as I tell you an omega, you build a fucking bower? And then you want me to be your boyfriend for your _rut?_ Are you shi-”

“Ugh!” He drops the bouquet on the kitchen table and breathes in long and slow as he runs a shaking hand through his hair. “I know! I know it looks bad! I know this is the worst fucking possible time to ask! I don’t want to be doing this either!” He looks at you, looking so scared. “I know you don’t want me to fuss over your or act like an alpha but all of these emotions and, and _impulses_ keep coming out of nowhere and I don’t know what i’m feeling or how to deal with it and-”

“So you want me to fix your emotional problems-”

“No! I just!” He pulls his hair back from his face with both hands, looking like he’s about to burst into tears. “I know I shouldn’t keep you here but I don’t want you to _leave_ and I know you don’t want me to but - I just want to take care of you.”

“I can fucking _take care of myself_.” And to your horror, your throat clogs up, your chest collapses, and you burst into tears. You immediately bury your face in your hands but it’s too late; John’s seen. In an instant his arms are around you. He’s sniffling into your hair, and you sob and sob and sob into your curled fists, each raw wail pulling out of you like rough rope on the insides of your lungs, drawing you inside out. You’ve never cried like this in your fucking life. Not the first time Bro hit Dave, not when you spent that first night at Roxy’s house after running away, not when Jane yelled at you for ruining her pack, not when Jake dumped you, not ever ever ever. Something inside you has completely and cleanly snapped, and you’re sobbing for every time you’ve felt endlessly and achingly lonely, like you’re the only fucking person left on earth.

The worst part is that it’s your fault. You push people away. You put up walls. You make yourself hard to know. You’re so fucking afraid of getting hurt you eat yourself from the inside out.

“I know I know I know I know,” John babbles, rubbing his face into your hair, still sniffling. “I know you can take care of yourself, I know. I just.” He pulls you even closer. Everything - sight, sound, touch, scent - is John. “I want to share it with you.”

God. He really means that. You scrub at your melting face, and he reluctantly lets you go.

He sighs. “Hahh. If you want to go you can. That was kind of a dick move.” You eye him as he dumps the rumpled bouquet in the trash and picks at the knot on his bowtie. You just know he’s going to leave it on the sticky table.

Do you want to leave? You know Roxy would happily set you up for the week, so it’s not like you don’t have a place to go. John’s an adult, and you know he can handle himself just fucking fine. So it’s not that. And it’s not the boyfriend thing either. You’d have to think about it sometime later when your head isn’t spinning hundreds of feet above the clouds.

You’ll admit it to yourself. You want to be touched. You want to be held. You want John to lay his entire body on top of you like a cat and scratch your back and play with your hair.

You don’t want to be lonely.

That, more than anything, makes up your mind for you. _You’re so fucked up._

You eye John as he goes about getting ready for bed, and when he goes to his room you slip past him, climbing into his bed. He looks at you, dumbstruck, eyes even wider without glasses, until you open your arms and say “c’mere.” And then he very very carefully scoots into bed beside you and sets his head underneath your chin. You stick your fingers in his hair and stare at the ceiling.

After a tense moment of silence, he shifts against you, and whispers, “so is this a yes to the boyfriend thing?”

You scritch his head for a moment. His body stretched out against yours, calming and grounding, is so fucking nice. But you hate that you like it. You don’t need an alpha, as much as the rest of the world would like to tell you.

You don’t need John.

But you might want him.

“Maybe,” you finally answer, and you can feel him smile.

This situation is fucked. So fucked up in so many ways. He’s taking advantage of you and you’re taking advantage of him and you haven’t even sorted out your anger and fear and love and desperate desire to be loved. But. For now. For now you can let him quietly purr as he falls asleep against you.

***

Morning finds you still staring at the ceiling, eyes thick and gritty with lack of sleep, limbs heavy. Disjointed thoughts swirl around in your fuzzy head.

John, predictably, slept like a log, and he’s still draped half over you. His weight against you is incredibly nice. Like a weighted blanket.

When he starts purring out of nowhere you realize he’s woken up, even though he doesn’t open his eyes right away - just sort of lazily shifts against you and nuzzles into your collarbone. It’s alarmingly endearing.

You card your fingers through your hair and wait for him to wake up fully, your heartbeat kicking up the longer he aimlessly fidgets against you. You force yourself to take deep breaths.

And then he props himself up on his elbows to look at you and grins, absolutely blinding, whole face scrunching in that way you like, and leans down to give you a very gentle and chaste kiss right on your chin, a little left and below your mouth. You don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be chaste; he’s not wearing his glasses and is kind of squinting like he can’t see you properly, but you’ll take it because it was sweet and cute and your heart is fluttering like you’re the protagonist of B-list romcom.

John is still just looking at you. Without his glasses his face is even more open - you can tell he’s trying hard to hide his worry but he can’t keep his eyebrows from drawing in. He’s chewing on one corner of his lip in a way that is criminally adorable.

“So, I know, that, uh. But I wanted to ask you anyway. If you had an answer. About the boyfriend thing?” Then his eyes widen to something in your face and take on a panicked edge. “But, I mean, a concrete answer isn’t a thing I need right now and it’s cool if you need to think about it or whatever! I know you need lots of time to think and you like thinking so if you need to think than you can definitely do that that’s totally cool-”

“John. John, slow down.” You take his dumb face between your hands. His cheeks squish. “I like you. A whole lot. I do want to be boyfriends, and.” Your face heats. “I knew that before you went into your rut. It’s just hard for me to sort out my thoughts because I’m... in omega mode right now.”

“Wait wait wait.” He frowns. “Hold on. What do you mean by ‘omega mode?’”

“Okay, uh. So you know how sometimes you fuss over people and boss people around and assume you know what’s best for the group? That’s alpha mode.”

John squints at you, eyebrows drawing in. “Hold up! I don’t do that stuff!”

You can’t help it. You stare. “W - what do you - yes you do!”

Now he’s on a roll. “Okay, okay, but also, if you say that this is like, in your ‘wiring’ or whatever, doesn’t that make it all subconscious anyway? Why does it bother you so much? I’m pretty sure you’re literally the only one who thinks so deeply about your own cognition so I think you can cool it!”

“No, I _can’t_ cool it. It’s like there’s _someone else_ living in my _head_ and telling me what to do-”

“But what kind of things? I don’t really - I don’t really get this.”

“It’s like.” You take a deep breath in through your nose. “Like pleasing people, or backing down from arguments, or-” You curl your hands away from him and look away. “Wanting physical affection-”

“Okay, first of all, you _don’t_ please people.” He leans forward, trying to get you to look at him. “You’re a taciturn little fuck. Probably the most taciturn person on this planet. It is you.”

“And that makes me anxious!” You turn back; he just looks perplexed, frowning hard. “I don’t want to intrude on people, but-”

“That’s just because you dislike conflict, though. That’s no big!”

“But is it because _I_ dislike conflict or because my omega wiring -”

“Dirk. _Dirk_.” He takes your face between his hands, and you go very very still. “For someone so smart you’re so fucking stupid! You know that’s a load of horseshit, right? All that ‘wiring’ stuff. Psychological ties to presentation and whatnot. Rose told me and she’s all about science so you know it’s all just stereotypes and stuff. I honestly didn’t think you could believe that kind of thing!”

“I _know_. I know it’s bullshit.” You scrub your face. “I know it is. I just don’t… want… to fit the stereotype.”

“But you don’t?” John pulls your hands away from your face. “You don’t! You’re the most un-omega omega I’ve ever met. Besides, is avoiding conflict and wanting physical affection such a _bad_ thing?”

At this point John really unfairly trails his hand up your side in what might be considered a soothing manner, but really just zips hot electricity straight to your dick. Hooray for responsible and rational conversations between adults.

His face is open and earnest. His hand is still incessantly moving against your side. “Like, listen, just because society or whatever thinks that omegas are weak - which is bullshit! - doesn’t mean that your wants make you _weak_. Or that somehow liking hugs or whatever makes you the stereotypical people-pleasing omega. You get that, right? Like, just because you want a hug sometimes doesn’t mean you start spending all your time in the kitchen all of a sudden.”

“But it’s _more_ than than. I don’t want anything to do with what society thinks of omegas because I don’t - I don’t want people looking at me presentation only and making assumptions about me.”

“Okay, but like, most people looking at you assume you’re an _alpha_ , and then by the time you’re close enough to someone to figure out you’re an omega, you don’t mind physical affection from them _anyway_ , because they’re friends! And they know you’re not a stereotype! Because they know _you!”_

And at that you have to look at John long and hard, head clicking around that new information. You think about Roxy. Sometimes she acts like a stereotypical beta but she’s so much _more_ than that, and just because she worries a lot about your pack, like any good little beta, doesn’t mean she’s only that. Or somehow weaker or … lesser for it.

John gently strokes your face, swiping his thumb across your cheekbone. “Listen, dude, I don’t understand why you’re punishing yourself for this. It’s not like you can control it. But also, who the fuck cares as long as you’re doing what makes _you_ happy?”

“Huh.” You file that away to think about later. You’re going to need time to churn it over and look at it from every angle, sometime when John isn’t trying to make himself as distracting as fucking possible with his broad fucking hands on your skin, fuck.

So you roll over until you’re straddling him and put your hands on his chest. His hands stroke your thighs up to the border of your boxers and ffffffuck. Every inch of your skin is a livewire. Sitting on his stomach like this he has a front row view of your half chub and you’re going to use it to your fucking advantage.

“Listen. John. I’m telling you in all seriousness that I am going to file this conversation away for later to think about very very thoroughly but right now I can’t think. You’re a handsy motherfucker.”

He looks a bit sheepish at that. “All right. As long as you promise to think about it.”

He’s always so fucking earnest. It draws a half smile out of you. “Promise.”

And you’re dead serious. It’s already sitting in the back of your head, slowly chugging. Personal epiphany in T minus 25 minutes.

And at this point, there really isn’t anything else for you to do but lean down and kiss him. His hands are so broad on your hips; even though you’re much taller your brain flashes with an image of his hands completely encircling your waist, even though that’s something that was only possible when corsets were still in fashion. Your entire core, right behind your navel, burns.

John is purring ever so slightly against your lips in a ticklish way. Everything about him is so big and comforting, and it’s going straight to your dick; it’s so fucked up that something as simple as comfort and content gets you up and running. God, you’re a needy motherfucker.

When you pull away John looks at you kind of sheepishly (through his thick fucking lashes, fuck, you didn’t realize he had enormous fucking doe eyes.) “Well, okay, maybe the happiness thing was a little selfish, because, ah. I just want to be allowed to make you happy.”

“Make me happy huh?” You trace your lips against his jaw and neck; you can’t really stand to look at his earnest, open expression. “See, this is what i’m talking about. This is your alpha mode.”

You don’t really mean it - you’re just making fun - but John stiffens underneath you. You pull back, alarmed, and he looks panic-stricken and pale. Oh fuck. Shit. You fucked up.

“Oh my god,” he whispers coarsely. “Is this it? Is this the rut?”

You exhale hard. Okay. You’re fine. You can handle this. “No, not just yet. You’re fine. I would be able to tell.”

“Thank god.” He sighs, visibly relaxing.

“We have a practice run before the real thing, I think.”

For whatever reason _that_ gets him all hot and bothered, and you can see him blush so hard it shows up even against his dark skin. You sit back and marvel at it.

And, because you have to ask: “Are you all right? Are you sure you want me here for this?”

“Yeah, yes, god, fuck, yeah, don’t leave. Please.” And he draws you down for another kiss.

You wriggle out of your shirt in between kisses, slipping your hands underneath John’s to cup his pecs, feeling his nipples pebble against your palms. He whines against your lips.

“Shirt, fuck.” While he’s wrestling with his shirt you wrangle his boxers down his thigh and help him kick them off, then slide yours down, quick and efficient. You only get a quick look at John’s half-hard dick before he pulls you against him for more kisses.

You get him to roll over on top of you. HIs weight against your is amazing, and he’s so close and precious. You want to look forever at the way his face scrunches comically every time you touch his dick, every time he makes a little sound he thinks he has to hold back by biting his lip, the way he whines ever so softly when you fist your hand in the thick curls at the nape of his neck. Everything about him is so adorable you might just die. It would be sickening if you didn’t like it so damn much.

It might be the discrepancy that you like - the way you’re here, in an alpha’s bed, with an alpha sprawled on top of you, and you are in complete control. He’s so earnest and puppyish in his mannerisms, almost clumsy, eager to go where you lead him, and goddamn _adorable_ , from his thick lashes to bottom lip perfect for biting and crooked smile and blue eyes and pretty pretty dick. It’s so different from anything you’d imagined. You’re inexpressibly relieved. A weight in your chest you didn’t know existed is now completely gone.

And then your brain clicks home and -

You’d always sort of thought of your “omega wiring” as some faceless, nameless person having power over you - the alpha you were _destined_ to be with - someone who would use your desire for physical affection and conflict deflection to overpower and demean you. It’s not the things themselve that really bothered you, (or at least that’s how you’re choosing to think about it,) because in this situation it’s _fine._

With John it’s always been fine.

Because he’s _like you_.

He doesn’t fit his presentation right. Sometimes he acts it, but most of the time he doesn’t. And now that you know that _it doesn’t have to be the way you had imagined it,_ now you know there’s a future in which you don’t have to fit the mold simply by being an omega in a relationship with an alpha, you…

Honestly, it’s kind of hard to think with John sprawled over top of you and frotting into your hand so you’re going to put that away for now and focus on the moment, thank you very much.

You’re pulled out of your head by a particularly well-coordinated thrust by John, the tightness building in your groin, your entire body clenching, electricity shooting up your spine, and you throw your head back and come, forgetting yourself for a moment and clenching your fist in John’s hair so hard he yelps. You quickly let go and clumsily pet his head saying “sorry, sorry,” breathlessly. You’re purring, ever so faintly, in the space behind your sternum.

John stares down at you, mouth screwed to one side in disappointment. “I wish I had my glasses on. I bet you made a really cute face.”

You just have to pull him down for a kiss.

And then you get to focus all your attention on John, and you fucking love this - getting to watch him get worked up, seeing his reactions to this and that, slowly sounding out what he likes and filing it away for later -

It’s close and hot because John won’t stop kissing you, except it’s not really kissing. He’s just sort of dragging his mouth across your jaw and breathing “ah ah ah” against you, one hand in your hair, the other fisted in the sheets by your head, until he suddenly shoots up and gives you a wild look and goes “oh, fuck.“

He curls into his orgasm, letting out the loudest  moan you’ve gotten from him so far, like it takes him so by surprise he doesn’t have a chance to stop it, and comes across your stomach and chest. Underneath your hand you can feel his knot form. Oh, right.

That’s a thing you sort of forgot about.

John whines “oh my god” as you both just sort of watch it form. John whispers “holy _fuck._ Is… is that going to go away?”

“Not for, um, fifteen minutes or so,” you say faintly.

John groans and covers his face, though you can see his flush traveling all the way down his collarbones. Your hand is still on his knot, and he quietly whines, dick twitching, when you rub your thumb against it.

“Now hold up, John Egbert. How is it that in this incredible age of technology you know nothing about knots?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t think it was a thing that I did? This has never happened to me before! First rut, first knot -”

“You don’t need to be in a rut to knot -”

“I KNOW but it’s like, never been something I thought would happen, bluh!”

“Well. Huh.” You still have his dick awkwardly in your hand. You have no idea what to do with this. It’s not like you haven’t seen your fair share of knots in your time, but something about this new knowledge makes you so cautious.

You end up just waiting it out, after John reluctantly lets you go take a shower to get his cum off your chest (he wants to cuddle, the handsy bastard). He combs and plays with your wet hair with a pillow over his lap, and you get him to start infodumping about photography, which effectively distracts you both from the situation at hand. You consider adorable nerding out John to be a bonus.

You make John eat some cereal because he’d been getting clingy and you feel like his rut is officially starting. You know jack fucking squat about getting alphas through ruts because you didn’t think you’d ever _have_ an alpha, so you make him eat a lot in between frantic google searches.

It pretty much goes like that for the next few days; google, loading up on leftovers and takeout, shopping for toys (which gets John adorably hot and bothered), and John always wanting to be no more than three feet away from you at all times, which you try your hardest to let yourself enjoy. You didn’t know your hair was long enough to braid, but braid it John does. You don’t know what his strange fixation with your hair is, but you appreciate it very much, and all his tingly touches, especially in between your shoulder blades and on the nape of your neck. You get his mouth against your freckles, and your nipples, and the head of your dick, sloppy and unpracticed and real and affectionate, so affectionate you’re going to drown in it.

After one night where John bursts into tears because you didn’t like the takeout curry you had ordered, you both feel the worst of his rut has passed. You sit him down on the opposite end of the couch to have a Real Serious Conversation.

You can tell he isn’t happy about the distance, but you need him to be Rational and Aware for this. And you don’t want to be cruel but this is something you guys have to address. There’s no way you _can’t_ address this.

“So. Now you’ve passed your rut, do you still want me to be your boyfriend?”

John pushes up his glasses, (a nervous tick,) and says, in his low and trembling Serious Voice: “Yes.”

You stare at each other for a moment. You want this _so badly._

“Okay,” you say, very quietly, and his face breaks into that grin you like so much. He crawls across the couch to fit himself right in your arms, under your chin. He’s purring so loud he laughs self consciously at it, so loud it tickles your lips when you kiss him - it’s not a real kiss, really, you’re both just smiling against each other, close close close.

And this - you think very carefully, about how you’ve never wanted an alpha-omega relationship, but this isn’t at all what you had thought. You and John are so different from what you should be, none of that really fits. Or matters.

You can’t really turn off the voice in your head that objects on principle, telling you that you’ve sold out every single one of your principles - that you’re a degenerate - but, well. It’s easy to ignore when John puts his hands on either side of your face and calls you darling, dear, baby, sugar, honey, and kisses and kisses and kisses you.

When you told John you were an omega dn he didn’t fucking care, it was like a vice in your chest you didn’t know was there suddenly released. It’s the same now. You want to take big gasping breaths; you’re weightless, you’re spinning, you’re _flying_. And, like a mantra in your head: it’s going to be all right, it’s going to be all right, it’s going to be all right.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I would get into A/B/O, much less use it as a conduit for writing an extremely painful and personal story. And yet here I am, 16,000 words later. This is the longest thing I've ever finished, which is buck fucking wild.
> 
> There's still tons I want to write for this universe! Come say hi at my [tumblr](https://rumpledsweater.tumblr.com/)!!


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